


On My Open Mouth

by fierybeams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2306948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierybeams/pseuds/fierybeams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene's career and her desire are two very different things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On My Open Mouth

She knows what people like; it’s what She does. A fine-tuned skill She’s made her (not-)name off of, that speculative guessing game she deploys with a hardened eye on the gait of a woman’s posture or the helpless gaping of a man’s chapped hungry maw.

She’s almost always right. It’s easy really, sometimes doesn’t even feel like a skill at all, when so many people want the same old boring thing, before they even know it, bodies aching from the effort of standing tall when every inch of them wants the feel of cold stone beneath bare knees as they stare up, necks stiff and eyes streaming to behold Her in all Her power and frost-coated indifference.

Irene (not The Woman, and that is key) hates them all, the sagging ass cheeks bent ungracefully over her stocking-clad knee, the wet, undernourished inner thighs that tremble with every warning snap of her whip. “ _This is about me_ ,” She articulates with a stinging palm, “ _you are nothing - don’t forget._ ” 

But they do forget. And how can they not, when every swing, syllable, and slap is specifically engineered for their pleasure? For this to work, She must be clothed, covered, untouchable, watching in feigned (or so they think) disconnect as they lay split open in panicked gratitude before Her, trusting with a sureness that makes Her laugh, brokenly, as She leaves them bound and steps away, heels clicking, to comb through their things, keen eyes searching for emails, photos, affiliations to later hold against them. (And, blackmail, that’s the real skill, the  _real_  game, really.)

This is what they deserve, for trusting, for centering themselves so sickeningly, and for looking up at Her like She’s their salvation, like She could ever give a fuck about them at all. 

They’re boring, ordinary, selfish most of all, and no one ever thinks to ask what  _she_  (not She; Irene, not The Woman) wants, what  _she_  needs. No one wonders whether or not she too sometimes craves the feel of jolting leather against shamed skin or a pair of unfeeling eyes on her spread, dripping cunt. It’s a voiding thirst that drives her out of her small stinking dungeon and into Buckingham Palace, against the famed Sherlock Holmes and all his legendary sleet.  _Will it be you_ , she’d wondered once, nails red, mouth dry, but with one sweeping glance she recognized her own longing in him and knew the answer was no (but still she’d played, and hoped, because at least he’d  _understood_ , on some level, that dreadful impossible man.) 

Sherlock had made her beg, that much was true, but she’d revealed nothing in it, gotten nothing out of it, tears on her cheeks made up of as much artifice as the bold thick makeup they ran tracks through. She’d won, in the end, remained The Woman despite what Sherlock thought (but he still called her that, did he not, so maybe he  _did_  know, and that thought thrills her even as it makes her heart sink, to still be so unseen.) 

With an uncertain twist of her painted mouth, she looks into the mirror, whip in hand and a client waiting. She glances at the phone resting in her lap and thinks of texting him, Sherlock, as she always does in these moments of weakness that somehow always feel so much like her truest strength. She hates herself every time she turns the phone over and resists, as she must now with her lips sucked together. 

Her back stiffens with the needy call of “ _Mistress, please_ ” that comes from the next room over (a woman’s voice, at least.)  _Maybe you’ll be the one_ , she thinks, as she does every time, the sting of anticipatory disappointment piercing through even as she lets herself hope anyway. 


End file.
